“ ‘What have I got for you, my little golden people?’ he says. ‘I’ve given everything away. All I have left is the crown of thorns on my head and this cloak you see me in. I’m as poor as you are.’
“He sat there, he rested his chin on his hand, lowered his head, and thought and thought. The peasants reckoned nothing would come of it and one of them says:
‘ “All right, we’ll be on our way, God.’
“But God says:
‘ “Just a moment. I’ll give you a little of my patience. If you take it, you’ll be able to put up with anything. Because people are going to have more need for patience than for riches.” ’
Kuś fell to thinking and stared at the passing cars. All of us on our wagons followed suit and stared at the cars like he was. And maybe they were even a bit less mad at them. All of a sudden Kuś pointed at the road with his whip and shouted:
“Hey, two hundred!”
“What about two hundred?”
“That’s how many have driven past.”
“What are you counting them for? It’s a waste of time. They’re not worth it.”
“Well, when there’s nothing else a fellow can do, he can at least count. My old father, God rest his soul, he’d always tell me, count, son, keep counting, you never know when it’ll come in handy. One time, you know, in the summertime we were lying under this apple tree in the orchard of a Sunday. I was already grown up. Father wasn’t saying anything and I wasn’t saying anything either. Father let his hat slip down over his forehead, I thought he was asleep. So I closed my eyes a moment too. Then all at once he says:
‘ “Three thousand five hundred and eighty-three.’
‘ “What do you mean, three thousand five hundred and eighty-three, dad?’ I ask, I thought he was dreaming.
‘ “That’s how many apples there are on the tree.’
‘ “How do you know?’
“ ‘I counted them. I always count things when something’s bothering me. You should too. Start with raspberries. There aren’t that many raspberries on a bush, so it won’t be too hard. After that, try counting the sloes on a sloe tree. Then break open a poppy head and count the seeds. Go up on a hill and count the fields and meadows and field boundaries. Count whatever you see in front of you, pigeons, clouds, people at funerals, posts in a fence, rocks in the river. Just never be idle. And if one time you can count all the stars in the night sky, then you’ll be able to say you have patience and you can overcome anything. I never was able to, but you should try. Maybe you’ll manage it.’ ”
“Hey there, Bartłomiej!” someone called from one of the wagons down the line. “I think there’s a gap, get going now!”
But there wasn’t any gap to be seen. The cars were closer and closer together. They were starting not to have enough space, they were honking at each other and flashing their lights and braking.
“The bastards won’t even let you take home a wagonload of sheaves!” said Wicek Marzec behind me. “Not that it’ll stop them eating the stuff. They can’t get enough of it!”
The men on the wagons started getting riled up again.
“They’re breeding like reptiles!”
“You know what, Wincenty, they’re not reptiles, they’re germs!”
“Can’t God do something?”
“What can God do? God made the world without cars! Cars must have been made by the devil.”
“Never mind the devil. I wish a big tree would just fall across the road and kill them all, damn them.”
All of a sudden Stach Brożyna, who was standing up astride his sheaves, started waving his whip in the direction of the road.
“Hey, you there! Stop for a minute, you sons of bitches! We’ll get across and you can all be on your way!” He was jumping about so much his horses took fright. They jerked forward, and Stach toppled over and landed on the sheaves. Everyone roared with laughter. Stach didn’t let up though. He got back on his feet. “Hey, you!” But he realized shouting at the cars wasn’t going to do any good, and he started firing up the other men:
“Come on, guys! Are we sheep or what? Someone ought to go up onto the road and wave his arms. Maybe they’ll stop!”
“That’s not gonna happen. Now if we all went out, maybe we could block their way.”
“What are they, water, that we have to block their way? What we should do is take our scythes and pitchforks to them! With them folks that’s always the only way!”
“Or throw rocks at their windshields!”
Anger swept along the line of wagons. Even Kuś got carried away and shouted:
“A cross is what you need! Across would stop them! No one can stand up to the cross. Nip over to the church, you know! It’s a hop and a skip. Bring a cross and go out on the road with it! The priest won’t mind. Tell him we can’t get over the road with our wagons.”
“That’s bullshit! A cross? You might as well just spit on the ground in front of them.”
“Don’t you blaspheme now! The cross is bullshit?” His voice even got hoarse. “You’ll be begging at that cross yet, damn you. Why do you think people put crosses and chapels and shrines by the roadside? So nothing bad will happen when you’re walking or driving there. Or at a crossroads? So you’ll know which way to go when you’re lost! You know, one time in the first war we were marching down a road just like this one. We were soldiers,
not civilians. And it was a whole lot narrower. There was no blacktop back in those days, just dirt. From the other direction there was a funeral procession with the cross at the front. We’d barely heard them saying the ‘Eternal Rest’ when our CO gives the order, Don’t kick up dust! Pick your feet up high!”
At that moment Stach Brożyna, who’d been standing taking a piss by his load, ran up to Kuś’s wagon, buttoning himself up as he came.
“You’re talking crap! Goddammit!” And just like that he lashed out once and twice at Kuś’s mare. “It’s because of you, it’s because of you we’re waiting here! Gee up! Gee up!”
The mare took the strain and jerked forward. Kuś pulled back on the reins with all his might till the animal’s head twisted, and he didn’t let go.
“Whoa! Stop! What fault is it of hers, you son of a bitch!”
Stach was in a rage, he took the whip in his right hand and struck out at the mare’s back and sides and legs.
“Giddyup! Giddyup! Come on now, move!”
From the beating she probably would have moved out in front of the cars, there was nothing else she could do, but Kuś lay down flat on the sheaves and wouldn’t let go of the reins, holding on with all the strength in his old body. The mare tossed her pulled-back head, pressed against the shaft, shifted left and right, and in the end she squatted with her hindquarters on the ground, but she didn’t move.
“Leave her alone, Stach!” I shouted.
But it was like Stach had gone crazy. His cap fell off. His shirt came out of his pants. And he kept hitting. Suddenly the mare lurched sideways and something cracked in the reach. The shaft rose upward and it looked as if the wagon would tip over.
I jumped down off my sheaves, grabbed Stach by the shoulders and forced him back into the field. He twisted clear and hit me on the head with the whip. He tried to do it a second time but I dodged out of the way, then I
grabbed him by the throat. His eyes almost popped out, his tongue poked out, he fell to his knees. The guys on the wagons were shouting:
“Christ, he’s gonna strangle him! Let him go! Szymek!” When I freed him he was gasping for breath.
“Don’t you raise your hand again!” I said to him. “The next time I won’t let go.”
Kuś came down off his sheaves, straightened the shaft, straightened the harness on the horse, patted her and stroked her and mumbled like he was talking to himself:
“How could he have beat her. Honestly, how could he have beat her. Her skin’s all trembling. And for what? For what? Come on now, stop shaking.”
“Bartłomiej,” I said, “get back up there and stop fussing with your horse. We’re gonna have to be going, we’ll miss our chance again. We’ve been waiting here long enough already.”
“How do you know, maybe the Lord put us here and he’s making us wait as a punishment. And the cars just keep coming. You know, there’s no point hurrying. It’s Sunday. Either way we’re sinning against God with every wagonload. The fewer loads, the fewer sins. The seventh day shall be a day of rest, that’s what it says. And it was God that said it, not people. And he reckons everything up, he does. If not on his own, then through his reckoners. And they’re just as careful as human ones. Pity I didn’t bring her feed bag. She could have had a bite to eat the while.”
He started clambering back up onto his sheaves. It wasn’t easy.
“Shall I get down and help you?” I said.
“Why would I need your help. You’re no spring chicken yourself. Time was I could shimmy up a poplar tree in the twinkling of an eye. And without anyone’s help.”
In the end he managed to climb up there. He got settled, took his whip and reins in hand.
“See, I could climb a tree even now.”
“Just keep your eyes open,” I said.
“That’s all I am doing.”
The men had quieted down on their wagons again. Nobody even felt like cursing, all you could hear was the cars roaring past, screeching and honking, then from time to time one of the horses would give a snort.
“Why so quiet, Bartłomiej?” I said, because everything seemed too silent to me. All those furious wagons and no one saying a word.
“You told me to watch out so I’m watching out. Where are they all driving to, damn them? Are they running away or something? From what? They can’t drive forever, though. They’ll get sick of driving before we get sick of waiting. Sure, not waiting would be better than waiting. But getting mad won’t do any good either. Think of all the things people have to put up with that are worse than waiting. Sometimes they think they can’t take it anymore. But they do. And you can never say they couldn’t take anything worse. Because in this world there’s no limit to how much worse things can get. And all people have is patience. So they have to just wait it all out. They’re like trees, just standing there, for years, for centuries. Wherever they were planted or wherever the wind sowed them. They don’t choose their place, they just stand there from the moment they’re born. Oaks stand the longest of all the trees. Poplars the shortest. Poplars are crap trees. You can’t even make a scythe handle out of their wood. But oak is like rock, you know. You can use it for anything. A doorstep, a wheel hub, a barrel, a cross, whatever you like. And all because it doesn’t get angry, it doesn’t curse, it just stands there. There are times when shouting won’t do you any good, nor tears, nor mowing. Neither God nor people will help you, only that patience of yours. And even when your time comes to die, it won’t seem so terrible, because you know, death is patience too. So we’ll outwait them, we will. We’ve out-waited all kinds of things with nothing but our patience to help us.”
I wasn’t thinking what I was doing. It was like someone had jabbed me in the side with a knife. I jumped down off my load.
“Back up, boys!” I shouted. “I’m going out there!”
There was alarm among the wagons.
“Are you nuts, Szymek?!”
“What’s gotten into you now?”
“You’ll never make it across!”
“There’s one car after another!”
“Think what you’re doing, for heaven’s sake!”
I straightened the traces and bridle, patted the horse on the neck, checked the straps. I didn’t feel upset, I wasn’t mad at anyone.
“Szymek, for the love of God!” Kuś leaned down all the way from his load. “I ought to be the one to go, you know. I’m the first in line. I’m only a few steps from death anyway. And my mare’s ready to die as well.”
I took the whip and reins in hand, but I could see the farmers standing there like the cat had their tongues.
“Come on, back up! Otherwise I won’t be able to get out from behind Kuś!”
And all of a sudden it was like the fear got into them, one after another they started backing up, pulling their horses’ heads up, snapping their whips, shouting, “Whoa, back up!” The reaches and axles creaked and goddammits were flying, because reversing a loaded wagon is no easy task.
I jerked back, pulled the horse to the right, and first of all drove into the field. Then, as I passed Kuś’s wagon I tightened the reins and it was giddyup! toward the road.
“Dear God, he’s going to kill himself! Stop! Wait up! Szymek!”
Kuś’s hoarse voice rang out through the air:
“Cross yourself at least!”
I leaned my shoulder against the wagon. The whip was burning my hand.
The horse was trotting along at a decent pace, maybe he sensed what he was up against. The front of the shaft was almost at the road when suddenly he hesitated and tossed his head. That part happened to be uphill. I flicked the whip across his back and legs. His whole body tensed, all the way to his hind hooves that were steadied against the ground. Gee up! Gee up! He was already coming out in front of the moving cars. Then the wagon sort of jerked him backwards, or maybe he just got scared of the cars. I braced my shoulder with all my strength against the load and took the whip to his legs once and twice again, till the horse arched. He moved forward. His front hooves were already clopping on the blacktop. The front wheels were on it too. I leaned back and whipped him again, like I was knocking the cars away from in front of him. By now my legs were coming out onto the road as well.
All of a sudden something flashed in front of my eyes. There was a terrifying honking sound right close by. I heard the squeal of tires. There was a crash and I came down like a felled tree. To begin with I couldn’t see a thing, like a fog had fallen all around me, I couldn’t feel anything either, I only heard voices and shouts somewhere far away. Then the fog began to slowly clear, and nearby to my left I saw a big hole, and in the hole a light-colored head covered in blood and looking like it was sleeping. I tried to get up. But it was as if I didn’t have a body, all I had was my will. Right in front of me on the blacktop my legs were lying all twisted like tree roots, and they were covered in blood. It seemed like my blood was flowing out of them, spilling far and wide. Though they weren’t hurting. I had the vague feeling they mustn’t have been my legs after all. And the whip I was holding in my right hand also didn’t seem to be mine, or the hand itself. Where could a whip have come from? I couldn’t for the life of me remember what I’d needed it for. It was like I was dreaming it all. It was only the road I knew was real, because I could see there weren’t any acacias growing alongside it anymore.